


Twelve

by ClockworkCourier



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Flogging, M/M, Missing Scene, Pre-Relationship, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-28 23:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21400726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkCourier/pseuds/ClockworkCourier
Summary: Thomas Hartnell is lashed twelve times.John Irving counts each one.
Relationships: Thomas Hartnell/Lt John Irving
Comments: 10
Kudos: 55
Collections: The Terror Rarepair Week 2019





	Twelve

**Author's Note:**

> [YEETS THIS OUT BEFORE MONDAY ENDS]
> 
> This fic kinda fits with the 'touch of fingers' prompt but tbh, it's more of a missing moment than anything. I'm glad we didn't get to see Hartnell get lashed, but I'm also like HHH WHAT WAS THAT LIKE??
> 
> Anyway, here's to hoping Hartving isn't a rare pair by the end of the week. o7 And also hoping my next few prompt fills go up in quality.

They lash Tom first in some semblance of alphabetical organisation. John doesn’t register the articles the man has violated. All he sees is Tom with his wrists above his head, his neck bent like a penitent as his shirt (striped, with his brother’s initials woven onto the right shirttail) lays in a heap by his feet, hastily kicked away to protect it from flecks of blood. He watches Tom press his hands together, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces for the first strike of twelve.   
  
(“Have you ever been lashed?” John had asked him once, honestly curious. They sat with their knees nearly touching, an open Bible between them—turned to one selection of harsh punishments of the Old Testament.  
  
“Once,” Tom conceded. “On the _Volage_ in ’38, when I was sixteen.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“The same thing my mother always warned me about,” Tom replied with a sly smile—the kind that turned just the corners of his mouth but brought dancing will o’ the wisp light to his eyes. “Not doing what I was told.”)  
  
John thinks the length of time between the sentencing and the first lash is cruel. It’s a long wait, silent with stifled breaths and nervous shifting of men grateful that they’re not in the centre of the room. Then, Johnson rears back and lashes once, striking Tom on the right side, just under his ribs. He jerks, a gasp catching in his throat. John flinches at the same time, although he hides the motion as shifting his weight from one foot to the other.  
  
Two.   
  
Three.  
  
He sees sweat start to bead on Tom’s forehead. There’s a sheen of it on his shoulders, over freckles, old scars, and new bruises. He steadies himself, opening his eyes to stare at the floor as Johnson lashes him again.  
  
Four.  
  
Five.  
  
The sixth makes a sick sound, catching on a raw weal wet with sweat. It causes Tom to twist his head quickly and muffle a yelp with his right arm. Nausea twists in John’s stomach, and by _God_ does he want to look away. By decorum and old rule, he isn’t supposed to, as every man is meant to witness punishment as it is doled in order to teach and warn. He’s watched them in the past—insubordination on the _Belvidera_, foul language and drunkenness on the _Edinburgh_—and after a time, they became as much a part of ship life as cannon drills. _This,_ though—  
  
Seven.  
  
He doesn’t want to see this happen to _Tom_, even though it’s earned.   
  
(“He owed up to it,” Edward had said. “I think Hickey pressed him to—”)  
  
Eight.  
  
He _doesn’t_ look away. He watches Tom’s face contort in agony. As sailors are often wont to do, he hides every sound, taking each strike as they come. It’s a point of pride, John knows. A man who doesn’t cry out is well-regarded by his peers.  
  
Nine.  
  
(“They never lashed my brother,” Tom told him. Their hands were close. If John would have moved his thumb over just an _inch_—  
  
“That’s good.”  
  
“He told me they would have if they’d known the things he had done.”  
  
“…Oh?”  
  
That rare, secret smile again. “It’s one thing to do it and another thing entirely to get caught.”)  
  
Ten.  
  
Tom’s legs are trembling. His wrists strain hard against the ropes, bruises set to form within hours. Johnson gives him a moment to gasp out a breath and shift his feet in order to brace against the last two lashes. John takes that time to look to Crozier, at his steadfast expression—utterly unreadable. Fitzjames’ face is writ with pity. The other officers are mixed between half-interest, sympathy, and disgust.  
  
“Again,” Crozier says.  
  
Eleven.  
  
Tom’s left knee nearly gives out. He chokes on a guttural sound pulled from deep in his chest before he pulls up hard against the ropes. Slowly, he turns his head.  
  
He looks at John.  
  
(He looked at John. Their fingertips touched over the thin paper of Solomon’s Song.   
  
“We’re named for Disciples, you know,” he told him, as though John was ignorant of the fact.   
  
Thomas Didymus witnessed the raising of Lazarus. He touched the wounds in Jesus’ hands and looked upon the gash in his Lord’s side. He doubted until he touched and believed.)  
  
The twelfth lash comes, and Thomas does not move. He doesn’t cry out or gasp. His eyes stay on John—wide, red-rimmed, tears leaking from the corners—and not once does he look away.  
  
(“Look at me and believe.”)  
  
Johnson unties his wrists, causing Thomas to stagger forward. One of his mates quickly reaches out to catch him just as John’s heart cries out to do the same. Then, he's gone, whisked away to the sick bay and out of John's sight. It aches, not being able to go to him right away, with Manson and Hickey still remaining.  
  
But he will.  
  
He will.


End file.
